The Horn

hornedear

 

Horn: A sharp protrusion. A warning. A pointed optimism for victory. The sound is of a dozen defenses. Defenses from a louder brass band.

Horn: A sound the color of brass. A brassy texture of volume. Loud space funneling forward. Inward. A noise channel. A channel engulfed by the volume. The volume of something filled.

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The Box

read me

 

I swallowed a secret a million years before numbers, so that nothing could be held accountable.

Scrolled up, jotted down, and shoved to the back of a bottle, the message was almost drowned.

Let me out! Let me out!  A pocketed paper screamed from below.

But when pulled up and rolled out, the ink had smeared rows.

Neither black, nor white, with no crisp lines to write on,

the page merged gray in conviction.

“But what was the secret?”

The question in question has stopped being questioned.

The message was found irresponsible.

The Answering Machine

tape-jpg_large

“Hey, you got me, but you didn’t really get me. Leave a message at the beep.”

You can get back home through the telephone wires. From city to suburb, follow the skinny black lines until your voice is my voice and our voice is here.

 

“Hey, you got me, but you didn’t really get me. Leave a message at the beep.”

Pick up. Where do you live now? Do you like your job? Who are you with?

Every now and again, your machine is full. Too many voices trying to get in. They push and they shove, but they stand just to wait.

I know, you’ll call me when you can.

 

“Hey, you got me, but you didn’t really get me. Leave a message at the beep.”

Do power lines still map the way if only cell phones are used? Invisible pathways going in a million different directions scatter the world apart.

Misplaced conversations. Lost words looking for a sentence.

Face focused on the front of the phone.

 

“This number is no longer in service.”

 

 

 

 

Redesigning Voice Mail :  The UX of the Missed Call

The Dress

texture-jpg_large

Soft colors of a thin fabric always hide first.

Do they bleed through to the back? Or do they stick stuck to the middle?

Inked on the inside of an empty dress, printed patterns collide.

They struggle against the wrinkles. They relax against the formed.

Curled into coarseness, they gently fold backward.

 

 

The Gold Medal

https://mytrendingstories.com/article/the-dating-profile-of-a-gold-medal/

Hello readers,

I am currently writing for the Trending Stories website that is linked above. I will be writing various articles there that I may post on here.  This is a test run to see if it’s working properly on the site.  I hope it is!

winner-1548239_1280

 

Name: Goldie

 

Age: Timeless

 

Ideal Partner:  Someone with ambition and loyalty.  Someone who loses like a winner.  Someone who shows up.

 

Ideal Date:  Hanging out in your bedroom.

 

My Biggest Life Question:  Am I worthy enough?

 

Favorite Quote:  “Everyone’s A Winner”

 

Contact me:

If: You’re a winner

At: The dollar store (next to the costume jewelry)

The Pace Maker

Hi guys,

Today I got a piece accepted into a medical journal!  It’s called The Pace Maker.  If you’re interested in reading it, just email me.

The Journal is by the American College of Chest Physicians.

The Alley

alley

 

Two buildings, almost touching, stand next to each other on a skinny side street. They are tall, gray, and stained with abandoned phone lines pressing against hard cement. A connection is lost.  From the alley crack smooshed between them, there is a black paved road that separates one from the other. Together they stand apart.

Bernie Sanders: ‘When We Stand Together, We Win’

The Earrings

 

 

earring.jpg_large

One silver tear drop earring, as elegant as any sadness could be, sat dangling off the edge of an antique sink.

Another silver tear drop earring, as elegant as any sadness could be, sat misplaced between couch cushions, wondering what had gone wrong.

They each remembered when they first met.   “We’re one in the same!” They had exclaimed at almost exactly the same moment. Together they draped themselves proudly below a woman’s heavy earlobes.

The woman loved them. She wore them all the time. She wore them to dinner parties, work, and even gardening. She loved them so much, she refused to take them off. She wore them in the shower. She wore them to bed. She wore them everywhere until one day, when she wasn’t paying attention, one of the earrings slipped.

Where had it gone? She tried retracing her steps. How could this have happened? She looked through her garden.   What will I do without the other?  Her loss hung heavy upon her head.

 

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3410378/Formerly-conjoined-twin-Conner-Mirabal-goes-home-time-13-months-separation-surgery-doctors-continue-monitor-brother-Carter-hospital.html

The Ink

ink

I opened up a book and the words fell out. It was cold and windy and from a storefront reflection, I could see the surprised look on my face. Inky fine print flew from the page. Jumbled. Tossed. It mixed together like salad.

I tried to gather them as fast as I could. Their shape, their letters, their voice was too slippery. Wet rubbery ink littered the streets with sayings. Their sentences bounced against the ears of pedestrians.

“Love I’m sorry lost stopwatch.” I tried to make sense of a stray sentence down the block, but the words had become tangled. Their letters were loose and their punctuation was damned. I squinted, but their meaning was lost.

Book Review on Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink: http://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/09/books/review-elvis-costellos-unfaithful-music-disappearing-ink-a-memoir.html

The Paper

hand-notes-holding-things-large

I like to think of my paper, my notebook sheets, as having texture. I want the lines to stick like staples punched through to the other side. Their long, skinny forms, plucked up from the page in an effort to rise above. I want the page to feel rough and gritty. Hard and torn through in spaces just empty enough to fill with small rips of imperfection. Lines like ridges would guide my pen in a steady cadence. Trotting through a white desert, my landscape would guide me in the right direction.

Instead my page is one long ice rink. Its smoothness leaves no gaps big enough to see through. The torn spots and crinkled edges are invisible. My paper has flat lined.

My instant reaction is to pump it back to life. Electricity in the shape of a fat black marker needs to run down the center. Cutting up sections of white plains with inked out projections. Just so there’s something. Just so there is a pattern that is slightly out of shape.

I will not get a rise from my paper. Instead, I will continue to run my fingernail across the surface. I wait for the bite of a smooth edge sharpened.

http://www.greenfieldreporter.com/view/story/4c49cedbb5254f849d4bef937361673a/AS–Thailand-Media